


Eve With a Lid On

by Saone



Series: A Lunch Counter Love Story [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Deaf Clint Barton, Diners, Getting Together, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saone/pseuds/Saone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five conversations with baked goods. A companion piece to Blue Plate Special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.

"Can I get you anything else?"

Phil looks up from the remnants of his turkey club and is met by the full force of a slightly crooked grin and bright blue eyes. He does something with his own face that he hopes comes off as a subdued, polite smile, but he has the awful feeling it lands on the more grimace-like side of facial expressions. "I'm good, thanks."

The man on the other side of the counter slides those pretty blue eyes over to Maria, and Phil takes the opportunity to rake his own eyes over that jaw line. "Ma'am?"

When Maria doesn't answer right away, Phil looks over at his partner. There's something evil lurking on Maria's face as she glances between Phil and Hawkeye's main cook. "I think I'll take a slice of apple pie," she says. "Thanks."

Phil raises an eyebrow.

"What?" Maria says defensively. "After Rogers spent most of yesterday waxing lyrical about the _best apple pie I've ever had in my life, oh, my God_ , I've been craving some." She looks at blue-eyes. "I'll tell you right now, I've had some pretty damn good apple pie, buddy."

"It's Clint," the man says, his grin deepening to carve out dimples on his cheeks, "and, no offense, but you haven't had _my_ apple pie yet, ma'am." He looks at Phil again. "How about you, sir? Can I tempt you?"

Phil valiantly ignores the little snort/cough combo Maria lets out as he tries to get his brain to come up with some kind of proper, non-creepy response. Dammit. Phil is on the wrong side of forty; he should _not_ feel so discombobulated around a handsome face. Or a firm chest. Or a trim waist. Or a truly amazing pair of arms. 

Jesus, look at those arms...

"He'll have a slice too," Maria says. She pokes Phil between two of his ribs. Phil resists the urge to poke back, but he goes along with Maria's order. Life is short, and Rogers was awfully adamant about the amazingness of this place's apple pie.

"Al a mode?" Clint asks.

"You're supposed to say put a hat on it!" A curvy brunette admonishes as she breezes past, a full plate in each hand.

Clint scowls as he tracks her across the restaurant. When he catches sight of Phil's questioning look, Clint ducks his head a bit and a trace of pink appears over his cheeks.

"Darcy thinks we should revive old fashioned diner lingo," he says. "Put a hat on it means adding ice cream to a slice of pie."

"Huh," Maria says. "That sounds like it would get super annoying."

"Right?!" Clint says. "Plus, sometimes I... I can't hear that great... what with the... things... and stuff. So, yeah, no." He rubs his palms across the apron at his hips. "Anyway, ice cream?"

"No," Phil says, "just the pie." He's probably going to have to add at least half a mile onto his morning jog as it is. Phil might chase criminals for a living, but his worst enemy has become the fear of middle-aged spread.

"Okay," Clint says. "Coming right up." He smoothly gathers Phil and Maria's lunch plates and turns towards the rear of the diner. Phil's traitorous eyes follow the strong line of his tee-shirt clad back down past apron strings to the swell of a nicely rounded denim-covered ass. His mouth goes dry as Clint walks away from them, said ass swaying enticingly.

Phil takes a gulp from his water glass and tries to ignore the amusement he can feel radiating off of his partner.

"Perv," Maria says under her breath.

"Shut up," Phil hisses back.

"Seriously, Phil, a fry cook?!"

"Shut. Up."

"He does make an awesome mac 'n cheese, though," Maria says thoughtfully. "And I guess he has some nice assets." She elbows Phil none too gently, jostling him on his stool. "Heh. Get it? _Ass_ ets. 'Cause that's what you were staring at. His ass."

"Maria," Phil says with a soft voice and a surprising amount of venom, "If you think our years of being partners, and, I had hoped, friends, will save you from my swift and fearsome retribution should you continue on your current path of trying to be a comedian, you are sadly mistaken. Now, will you please-"

"Ooooh, pie!" Maria says loudly, easily drowning out Phil's voice.

Phil's head whips around fast enough to catch Clint looking a tad startled at Maria's enthusiasm. At least, Phil hopes Clint's startled look is due to Maria's enthusiasm and he didn't catch the tail end of Phil's threat.

Clint's crooked smile comes back easily enough as he places plates filled with truly gorgeous pieces of pie in front of Phil and Maria. He then takes a few steps back and crosses his arms over his chest. "Go on," he says with a nod, "let me know if your friend was right."

Phil picks up his fork and uses the edge of it to cut through the golden, flaky crust and the firm apples beneath it. The smell of spices fill the air. Phil takes an appreciative sniff of cinnamon and... something else... nutmeg, maybe... before he gathers a good sized bite and lifts his fork to his mouth.

Phil has never been a particularly demonstrative person, so the deep, _happy_ moan that comes out of his throat at that first taste of Clint's apple pie surprises him so badly that he prematurely swallows and almost chokes.

Phil puts a hand - luckily not the one still holding his fork - to his throat and tries to contain his coughing.

Clint and Maria both stare at him with wide eyes.

"Geez, Coulson," Maria says.

"You okay, mister?" Clint asks.

"Yeah," Phil croaks. "I'm okay." He takes a sip of water. "It's good." He tries to smile, but this time he _knows_ it's more of a grimace.

Clint nods, but there's still a hint of concern in his face. The poor guy was probably afraid Phil was going to keel over or something. Phil takes another bite just to prove that he can consume food like any other normal human.

"Wow," Maria says, talking around her own mouthful of pie, "this is good."

"But is it the _best_?" Clint asks with a smirk.

"Eh, sorry," Maria says. "Familial obligations require me to leave that title to my grandma."

"Say no more," Clint says, holding up a hand. "I wouldn't even try and compete against pies made by grandmas. How about you?" Clint's eye focus on Phil and one of his eyebrows quirks up a bit for good measure.

"Uh..." Phil licks his lips, chasing a bit of spice. "It's definitely in the top ten."

The eyebrow quirks further. "Top ten?"

"Top three?"

"Okay," Clint says with a nod, "I can live with top three."

"Hey, boss-man," Darcy says, appearing at Phil's elbow, "I'm gonna need a hockey puck on hojack with a honeymoon salad and love apples on the side, all right? Awesomesauce, Daddio." With a thumbs up and a flip of her hair she's off again.

For a brief moment, Clint looks like he just got smacked with something. He shakes his head sharply, then gives Phil and Maria a tight smile.

"Excuse me," he says, "I have to go fire someone."

Phil's willpower has obviously left the building because he can't help but watch Clint walk away again.

"Hmmm," Maria says, "not just a fry cook, then."

Phil scowls at her, then gives his full attention to the plate in front of him.

It _is_ really good pie.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five conversations with baked goods. A companion piece to Blue Plate Special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.

It's a windy, blustery day more suited to early March than mid April, but Phil's glad for the dreary weather. After the morning he's had, Phil really doesn't know if he could handle sunshine and birdsong. 

He fights against a strong wind to open Hawkeye's door, then nearly loses his balance as that same strong wind propels him into the diner. Phil hears a poorly concealed snort of laughter, and he fervently hopes that Clint is amused at the near slapstick quality of his entrance and not at the state of his hair or something.

As nonchalantly as possible, Phil lifts a hand and lets it smooth over the back of his head - everything that's left seems to be in the proper place, thank God - and quickly scans the room. There are only a handful of other customers scattered here and there in the booths. Darcy and Jane are the only waitstaff around, and they're both hunched over one of the far tables, their noses buried in thick textbooks. 

There's no one at the counter, and Phil's free to take what he's come to think of as his regular seat. 

"Sorry," Clint says as he, without prompting, places a mug in front of Phil and fills it three quarters of the way with hot, dark coffee. "I wasn't laughing _at_ you... Or, well, I kind of was, but not in a mean way. It's just, you normally seem so put together, and the way you came in was so _not_ put together, I..." The coffee splashes against the inside of the carafe as Clint makes some kind of odd gesture with his hands. He clears his throat. "Anyway, what can I get you today, Detective Coulson?"

Phil blinks, first at the stream of words and then at the slight blush stealing across the tops of Clint's cheeks. How odd. He then looks up at the menu board. Nothing tempts him, not even the addition of French silk and lemon meringue to the pie list. His eyes drop down to his mug. "I think I might just stick with coffee today, Clint. Thanks."

"Rough morning?" Clint asks.

Detecting some true empathy in Clint's voice, Phil decides to respond with an abbreviated truth rather than a standard non-answer. "I spent most of the morning in court." 

"Ah," Clint says. He's frowning, but he doesn't ask any follow-up questions. He's silent for a moment, then his face brightens just a tad. "How about a slice of pie, on the house?"

Phil lets one of his eyebrows raise ever so slightly. "Offering someone free pie when they've had a bad day isn't the best business model. Especially around here."

Clint shrugs and makes a scoffing sound. "Whatever. You're a regular; in the long run it'll pay more to keep you happy."

Phil very firmly tells himself to not read too much into this. He's sure that he's not the only person Clint would give a 'cheer up' piece of pie to. Probably. "Well, I appreciate the offer," he says, "I _really_ do. But, again, I think I'll just stick with the coffee."

Clint nods and gives him a small smile before he moves away.

Phil spends a few minutes staring contemplatively into his cup before he gets tired of his self-pity party and starts indulging in his new favorite past-time of surreptitiously watching Clint cook. He likes to think of it as a live version of the Food Channel since that makes him feel slightly less creepy.

Clint chops, and mixes, and periodically checks on something in one of his ovens. There's a rhythm in the way Clint moves around his kitchen, and Phil soon finds himself soothed by it. 

In fact, Phil gets into such a mellow state that he almost jumps when Clint's movements come to a stop right in front of him.

Clint slides a plate across the counter and into Phil's space. It's got a large, gorgeous, golden-hued muffin sitting on it, still steaming from the oven, with a pat of butter and knife off to one side. Phil looks up at Clint and cocks his head slightly.

"I know you said you didn't want anything," Clint says, "but I figure you probably haven't eaten since breakfast, if you even had anything then, and since I now feed people for a living, I'm kind of taking a personal offense at that." The right side of Clint's mouth quirks up into one of his grins. "It's just a corn muffin, and if you really don't want it then-"

At that very moment, Phil's poor, empty stomach gives a hearty growl. Phil shakes his head ruefully as Clint's grin turns triumphant.

"Ha!" Clint says. He pushes the plate a little bit closer to Phil's chest. "Eat."

"All right," Phil says, not even bothering to put up a hint of a protest. The muffin does look delicious. 

Clint, obviously pleased at the thought of feeding someone, sticks around and watches Phil as he cuts the top off of the muffin, then slathers the insides with butter. Phil feels his skin prickle a bit at being observed, but he figures turnabout's fair play and all.

"You know," Clint says, right before Phil takes his first bite, "if you ever want to talk, or vent, or whatever..." He shrugs. "I mean, I know it's traditionally a bartender that's the guy behind a counter who's willing to listen to people's troubles, but..." Clint trails off.

Phil's kind of touched. But he's not going to burden the poor guy with his problems, especially when it involves the nasty details of one of his cases.

"Thank you," Phil says, hoping his sincerity comes through his tone. "For the offer. I appreciate it. Really."

Clint's mouth twists into something wry. "But you're not going to take me up on it, are you?"

Phil doesn't answer. Instead, he takes his first bite of the muffin and, like most times when he eats Clint's baked goods, his eyes involuntarily close in pleasure. "Oh, wow, that's good." The praise and happy noises he makes are also involuntary, but Phil's getting used to the embarrassment. Clint's beaming face usually helps with that.

"Thanks," Clint says, ducking his head slightly, like he's being bashful. God, that's cute. "This is actually one of the first recipes I made on my own. Easy enough for a kid to do, you know?"

"Helping your mom out in the kitchen, huh?" Phil asks genially. From the look that comes over Clint's face, he immediately knows he's made a misstep.

"Something like that," Clint says. The smile he wears now is a little wan and a lot distant. Phil can't help but regret trying to make conversation.

"Sorry," Phil says, "I just-"

"I should get back to doing stuff," Clint says, cutting him off. "Pies aren't going to make themselves, right?" He takes a few steps backward, and Phil knows this pleasant little interlude is over.

"Oh, okay," Phil says. "How much do I-"

"Don't worry about it," Clint says. He turns, but looks back at Phil from over his shoulder. "You have a good day, Detective Coulson."

"Yeah," Phil says to Clint's back, "you too." Phil polishes off the rest of his muffin. He thinks about saying something else, something pithy and smart. Instead, he keeps his mouth shut and takes his leave.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five conversations with baked goods. A companion piece to Blue Plate Special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.

Phil is not in the best of moods. He and Maria had arrived at Hawkeye's right in the middle of the lunch rush, and not only had Phil's stool already been occupied - by Sitwell, the traitor - the only empty seat available was a booth at the back, near the restrooms. Phil supposes they're lucky to have a table at all, but he can't even see Clint from this spot.

Not that getting to see Clint is the only reason he likes coming to Hawkeye's. It's just a bonus. A nice, firm, hot bonus.

To add to that, their server this afternoon is Jane. Normally, Phil likes Jane. She's lovely and sweet, but, like most terrifyingly brilliant people Phil's met over the years, she occasionally shows the common sense of a fruit fly. While his and Maria's sandwiches appeared with haste, the slice of pecan pie he ordered ten minutes ago has yet to be delivered.

Phil cranes his neck, searching for her again, but there's still no sign of her. She must be in the back, probably writing out some kind of quantum equation on a wall with a bottle of ketchup.

"I don't get it," Maria says.

"Get what?" Phil says absently. He still hasn't located Jane, but he's realized that if he leans to the right a bit and twists his head _just so_ he can see a reflection of Clint in one of the mirrors on the wall.

"You, Coulson," Maria says. "I don't get you."

Phil gives up his glimpse of Clint and turns his attention to his partner. The look of mild exasperation on her face is something he's never seen directed his way before. She usually saves that look for people like Stark or Selvig, down in the coroner's office. 

"What did I do?" Phil asks, feeling a bit cowed.

"Nothing," Maria says harshly. "That's the point."

"I'm sorry," Phil says, "did I miss the beginning of this conversation?"

Maria takes a breath and opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Peter appears beside their table.

"Sorry for the wait, Detective," Peter says, setting Phil's pie down in front of him. "But, on the plus side, I'm pretty sure Jane just figured out-"

"Stop," Phil says, holding up a hand. "Don't need to know. Wouldn't understand it if you told me. Thanks Peter," Phil waves him off, then turns his full attention to his pie. He licks his lips as he makes a little yummy sound in the back of his throat. He picks up his fork, then blinks rapidly when it's snatched from his hand.

"Okay," Maria says, brandishing Phil's fork in a vaguely threatening manner, "that's it. We're having an intervention. Right here, right now." 

"Inter-what? Give me back my fork, Maria," Phil says.

"You'll get it back once you listen to what I have to say," Maria says. "God knows there's no point trying to talk to you when you're consumed by pie-lust."

Phil considers trying to take his utensil back by force, but there's a certain terrifying gleam in Maria's eyes that tells him such an action would probably not end well. He spares a forlorn glance towards his cooling pie, then takes a breath and calmly rests his hands on the tabletop. "Fine. Speak."

"Phil, we've been partners for almost five years now," Maria says. "And, in that time, I'd like to think that we've become close. In fact, I tend to think of you as a brother."

"I'm touched, Maria," Phil says. "Truly. And the sentiment is returned."

"Yeah, whatever. I'm talking now, shut up."

Phil sighs.

"Anyway," Maria says, "you're like family. I don't know about yours, but mine's not big on the whole compliment, coddling thing, so I'm only going to say this once. You, Phil Coulson, are a professional badass."

Phil blinks a few times, but he doesn't depute the statement. "All right."

"You are one of the most competent people I've ever met," Maria continues. "I know the only reason you're still a detective and you haven't risen further up the ranks yet is because you enjoy the chase too much. You hunt murderers for a living, Phil, and you're good at it."

Phil nods, because it's true.

"You saved my life," Maria says softly. "More than once."

"Like you've saved mine," Phil adds.

Maria waves off his second interruption. "There is no one I would rather have at my back than you, Phil. However, that being said, if you don't do something about this little crush of yours, I'm going to have to hurt you. Badly."

"Maria," Phil says, a touch of annoyance in his voice, "I don't-"

"Do _not_ try and deny it. Seriously. Every time you get within twenty feet of Arm Porn over there, you turn into a mess. A huge, awful mess. A really, giant, awful-"

"I get it," Phil says. 

"I don't think you do," Maria says. "It's embarrassing, Phil. I am embarrassed for you."

Phil can feel the start of a scowl pulling down the corners of his mouth. "Thank you for your input. Can I have my fork back?"

"No," Maria says. "It's embarrassing."

"You already said that."

"It's obviously worth repeating. Here, I'll say it again. _It's embarrassing._ And unnecessary. Phil, the guy's clearly into you too.

Phil rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. He's never really been a religious man, but he prays for strength anyway.

"So, that being said, I'll repeat, _I don't get you_ ," Maria says. "You're a catch. Reel him in already." She frowns. "Or, no, wait, I guess if you're the catch you wouldn't be the one doing the reeling..."

"I'm not a catch, Maria," Phil says.

"Of course you are."

"No, I'm really not."

"Phil," Maria says, her exasperation adding another syllable to his name, "yes, you are. Okay, granted, not to me, but I think that's because of the whole brother thing. Also, partners sleeping together is so cliche. Except for Carol and Jess, they're just hot."

Phil wonders what kind of irreparable damage it would do to his cred if he banged his head against the table a few times. "Maria, stop. Please. I'm not a catch. I'm not. All those things you said, you just think they're good qualities because you're a cop. Regular people don't see me like that."

Maria narrows her eyes. "How do you think _regular_ people see you, Phil?"

Phil sighs and fights the urge to slouch. "I'm on the wrong side of forty, I haven't had a full head of hair since the first Bush administration, and I'm practically married to a demanding, high stress job that's probably going to give me my first heart attack sometime in the next decade or so. Any one of those things would be enough to make a normal guy run in the opposite direction."

Maria stares at him, long and hard. "Then I guess it's a good thing Clint's not normal, isn't it?" she says, finally.

"Of course Clint's normal," Phil says.

"Really? Because the people he's surrounded himself with sure the hell aren't." Maria grimaces. "Not like I'm exactly one to talk..."

"They're eccentric," Phil says kindly.

"Which is just another word for not normal," Maria says. She leans across the table and drops her voice. "Seriously, though, I'm not the only one who gets the willies from Natasha, right?"

Phil lets his eyes scan the room and quickly picks out the redhead. "No, you are not," he says out of the corner of his mouth.

"Barnes has balls of steel," Maria says.

"Hmmm." Phil lets his eyes widen slightly. Maria tenses and turns her head just a tad. Phil makes a grab for his fork.

"Ah ha!" he says triumphantly, his fork clutched tightly in his fist.

"Dammit," Maria says. She slumps in her seat. "And here comes the pie-lust." 

"Never do that again," Phil says before he turns his attention back to his plate. 

"This isn't over, Phil," Maria promises. "Even if I have to rope every other person in the department into it, you are getting that piece of tail."

"Uh huh." Phil says. Honestly, he has no idea what she just said because, well, _pie_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five conversations with baked goods. A companion piece to Blue Plate Special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.
> 
> This chapter contains mentions of a violent encounter in Clint's past that led to his hearing damage.

Phil makes his first date with Clint over a shared piece of chocolate chess pie. He breaks his first date with Clint in between bites of a rather suspect looking hot dog he grabs from a cart outside the precinct.

"I'm so sorry," Phil says into his cell phone as he quickly walks down the block to where Maria's keeping their car idling. "I'm going to have to cancel tonight."

"Uh, okay," Clint says. "That's kind of short notice. Can I ask why?"

Phil reaches the car and waits for Maria to roll down her window. "One of Maria's CIs gave her a tip that someone we've been looking for might show up at this club," Phil hands Maria her hot dog and waves off the apologetic expression on her face. "It's probably not going to pan out, but we need to follow up. The guy we're looking for is..." Phil trails off, not wanting to over-explain the details of what had been a particularly nasty case. He walks around behind the car and leans against the passenger side door. "Clint, I'm really sorry."

For a few long moments, all Phil hears through his phone are background noises from the diner. Phil hopes that Clint's attention has been momentarily captured by something else and his keeping quite isn't actually due to seething rage or - even worse - a sudden realization that he could do a lot better than an aging cop.

"Let me get this straight," Clint says, after Phil's rumbling stomach had forced him to take a bite of his pathetic excuse for dinner, "you're standing me up because you have to go on a stakeout?"

Phil nearly chokes as he swallows too early. "Yes."

"Because Detective Hill got a tip. From a CI."

Phil winces. "Yes. That's right."

"Wow," Clint says. "That's so cool."

Phil blinks a few times. "Sorry, what?"

"That's like Law & Order stuff right there," Clint says. "Or CSI. Or Dog Cops."

"Dog Cops?" 

"You don't like Dog Cops?" Clint asks with a bit more force than Phil thinks a question like that deserves.

"I love Dog Cops," Phil says quickly. "Who doesn't? But... You're okay with this?" 

"Yeah," Clint says, "I mean, I'm not saying that I'm not a little put out." The background noises fade and Phil imagines Clint leaving the main floor and walking deeper into the building, maybe even back to the apartment he keeps there. "I was really looking forward to spending some non-diner time with you." 

"Me too," Phil says. "I made reservations." He had had _plans_ for the night. Good plans. Romantic plans.

Clint makes a sympathetic noise. "Yeah. But it's your job, right? What can you do?"

"It is, yes. But it's not... I'm not... You're really okay with this?" he asks again.

"Sure." 

"But, Clint, I-"

"Phil," Clint says with a slight chuckle, "do you want me to be upset?"

"No," Phil says.

"Are you canceling tonight because you've changed your mind about dating me, or because you're going to be stuck in a car with Detective Hill, trying to catch a bad guy?"

"The latter," Phil says. "Definitely the latter."

"Then don't worry about it. It's okay."

"Are you sure?" Something in Phil just has to ask one more time.

"Yes, I'm sure," Clint says firmly. "Just come by when you're done, all right?"

Phil smiles and shakes his head. "What, so you can feed me?"

"Well, it certainly won't be so you can get lucky," Clint says. "We haven't even been on one date yet; how easy do you think I am?"

"I'm trying to decide if I should answer that or not."

"Go with your gut, Detective," Clint says. "And give me a call when you're headed here." His voice drops down, soft and sweet. "I'll make sure something warm is waiting for you."

Phil laughs then twitches violently when Maria honks the horn. He quickly makes his goodbyes to Clint and slides into the car.

"Don't give me that look," Maria says as Phil glares at her. "I heard you laughing. Out loud. In public. It freaked me out."

Phil sighs and stuffs the rest of his hot dog in his mouth so he can fasten his seat belt.

"I'll assume that display of mirth, odd as it was, means Clint's okay with you canceling?"

Phil nods and keeps chewing.

"Jesus Christ, Coulson," Maria says as she put the car into gear and smoothly pulls into traffic, "that man is a keeper."

"Yeah," Phil says after a moment, "I know."

___________

The something warm Clint has waiting for him is a chicken pot pie. 

"Are you kidding me?" Phil says, staring at the golden crusted concoction sitting on a plum colored placemat on Clint's dining table.

Clint's eyes go wide and his hands wring themselves in the dark purple oven mitt he's holding. "You don't like chicken? No, wait, you like chicken. You don't like chicken in pie form?"

"I love chicken in pie form," Phil says. "But this is way too much, Clint."

Clint scrunches up his face and cocks his head to one side. "Too much what?"

"Trouble," Phil says. "You didn't have to go to so much trouble. Not for me. Not this late at night." 

Clint snorts and rolls his eyes. "Technically, it's morning," he says, smiling to take any sting out of his words. "And this wasn't any trouble at all." Clint tosses his oven mitt onto the table, then motions Phil to hand over his coat. "Sit. Eat. Now."

Phil frowns but does as he's told. "I still think-"

"See, that's your problem." Clint takes a seat across the table from Phil and makes a little motion towards the fork beside Phil's plate.

Phil huffs a bit, still not liking the amount of effort Clint put into this late night - or early morning - meal. But he dutifully picks up his fork and cracks the crust of the pot pie. "Aw, geez," Phil murmurs as he gets a face full of savory-scented steam. He breaks more of the crust and mixes it into the filling.

"My mom used to make this," Phil says softly as he gathers some chicken, crust and veggies onto his fork. "Not a lot. Usually two or three times a year. Four, if we were lucky, and it was a really cold winter." He looks up and narrows his eyes at Clint. "She'd spend hours working in that kitchen."

Clint grins and shakes his head. "You're sweet," he says, "but the reason it took your mom so long is because she didn't have left-over cooked chicken from another recipe. Or an employee to chop up vegetables for her. Or a freezer full of various kinds of pre-made dough."

Phil pauses with the fork half way to his mouth. "Your pie dough is frozen?"

"I don't have time to make a fresh batch _every_ morning." Clint pouts a bit. "Is the magic gone now?" 

"It's a good thing you're cute," Phil says solemnly before he finally takes his first bite. He lets out a little grunt of pleasure as the flavors hit his tongue. God, it's so, so _good_.

Clint's face lights up. "How could I not cook for you when I get reactions like that?" 

Phil's too busy trying to maintain some semblance of table manners - would it be _that_ bad if he just held the bowl up to his mouth and used his fork as a shovel - to even try and think up a response to that.

For a little while there's nothing but the sound of Phil contentedly eating. Clint's leaning on the table. He's got his chin propped up on one hand and a distant look on his face.

"My mom was never much of a cook," Clint says as Phil's scraping the bottom of his dish. There's an odd note to his voice, and his eyes are tilted towards the table top, but they're unfocused. "I picked up everything I know from folks in the circus."

Phil rests his fork against the edge of his dish and waits. He knows that Clint has stories, but as this new silence drags on, it seems obvious that this isn't going to be the time he shares them.

Phil clears his throat. "Thanks again." 

Clint starts a bit. His eyes focus and find Phil's. "I'm glad you liked it," Clint says, a ghost of a smile playing over his lips. 

"No, I'm not talking about my dinner," Phil says. "I mean, thank you for being understanding. About tonight."

"It's not a big deal, Phil."

"No," Phil says, "it is."

Clint studies him for a moment. "Have some people not been understanding?"

Phil leans back into his chair. He takes his time and gathers his thoughts. He knows this conversation is going to be awkward, but the thought of getting all of this out of the way now - so it doesn't come back and bite him on the ass later - feels almost liberating. 

"The demands of my job have caused friction in the past." He pauses and runs a hand over his face. Clint, bless him, sits patiently and quiet.

"Every relationship I've had has ended because the person I was with couldn't handle my job," Phil says. "First it was the Army. There were long deployments, then not being able to talk about where I was being sent or what I was doing when I got there. Then I became a cop and... Before I put on the badge, I never knew a person could be so fulfilled yet so frustrated by the same job. And, sometimes, I bring those frustrations home with me. I can get surly and uncommunicative." Phil shrugs. "After a while, it was just easier to be alone."

Clint absorbs that for a moment. "Wow," he says, "this has gotten surprisingly deep for a first date."

Phil feels heat rise to his cheeks and his ears. "Sorry. I-"

"No, no," Clint says, "I get it. I do. Maybe it is better to get the worst of any possible dealbreakers out in the open early, before anyone gets too attached, right?"

Phil just nods and doesn't bother to say that he's already kind of attached.

Clint cocks his head to one side. "If being alone is so easy, do you mind if I ask why you're taking a chance on me?"

The heat that had dissipated a little comes rushing back to Phil's face. "That depends. Would it win or lose me points if I mention your god-like abilities in a kitchen?"

Clint's entire face scrunches as he laughs. "God-like, huh?"

"And your arms," Phil says, figuring he's already in for a penny. "And your eyes."

"And my ass?" Clint asks with a wink. 

"Yeah," Phil says, feeling slightly mortified, "that too."

"Good to know."

"And your smile. I really like your smile."

Said smile makes an appearance. Clint also ducks his head, and a blush steals across the tops of his cheeks. It's like an adorableness trifecta.

"Um... I like your smile too," Clint says, gazing at up at Phil through thick lashes. Phil feels his stomach give a little bit of a flip.

"As for the rest," Clint says, moving his head and looking at Phil straight on, "I don't know what to tell you. I can say that, with the life I've had, I would never had survived if I couldn't be adaptable. Rolling with the punches and all that." Clint's mouth twists up into some kind of bastardization of his usual grin then evens out again. "I understand commitments, and I understand shitty hours. And, who knows, maybe the two of us will end up fighting like cats and dogs over the stupidest crap, but I think the only time I'm gonna care about you breaking a date, is if you're happy about it."

"I can't imagine that ever happening." 

"And if you do get surly and uncommunicative," Clint says, "I'm pretty sure all I'd have to do to make you sweet again is bake you something." 

Phil laughs. "Yeah, that would probably do it." Phil thinks of a future filled with pies, and muffins, and cobblers. He then thinks about what it's going to cost to have all his pants altered.

"So, uh..." Clint's oddly hesitant voice brings Phil out of his depressing, tailor-related thoughts. "Is it my turn?" he asks, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"Your turn for what?" Phil says.

Clint's eyes are wide and somber. "To tell you why I'm not that great of a catch, god-like kitchen abilities aside."

"Clint, unless the next words out of your mouth include 'serial' and 'killer', I'm fairly certain that there's nothing you can say that-"

"I lied," Clint says.

Phil blinks. "Okay."

"The other night," Clint continues, "when I told you guys about the circus."

"Okay," Phil says again.

Clint's fingers find his discarded oven mitt and they begin plucking at a loose thread. "You remember I said I left the circus because of an accident?"

Phil nods.

"Well, it wasn't an accident," Clint says. "There were these guys, and..." Clint shakes his head sharply. "I'm not gonna get into the specifics, but, they kind of beat the crap out of me." He chuckles. "Actually, it was more than just _kind of_. They put me in a coma."

Phil's fingernails dig into the wood of the table. That's the only reaction he allows himself.

"When I woke up," Clint says, "I couldn't hear that great." He shakes his head again. "Or, at all. Mostly." He scrubs a hand through his hair and shoots a longing look towards a cupboard by the sink. "Man, last time I talked about this, I was drunk, and it was _a lot_ easier."

Phil lifts his shoulders in a slight shrug. "I wouldn't mind something right about now," he says softly.

Clint nods once, then is out of his seat and moving across the room. Phil hears a door opening and glass clinking. 

"Is bourbon okay, or would you rather-"

"Bourbon's fine," Phil says.

When Clint comes back to the table he's carrying two tumblers and a bottle of Maker's Mark. 

"I've got hearing aids that work really well," Clint says as he pours a few fingers into each glass. "Seriously, they're amazing." He takes a healthy swallow. "But I can't wear them all the time, like at night. And I usually watch TV with the closed captioning on, 'cause it's easier sometimes. And, there's some other stuff, but..." Clint downs some more from his glass. "I just thought you should know, you know?"

Phil takes a few sips from his own glass as he takes stock of what he's just learned. He has questions. Of course, he has questions. Phil bites most of them back, but there's one thing he _has_ to know. "The men who did this, they-"

"Were caught, tried, and convicted," Clint says. "And then they were destroyed in civil court. Their families were rich, and I had a great lawyer. It was awesome." Clint's current grin shows far too many teeth, but Phil kind of likes it.

"Good," Phil says, letting out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "Good." Then he processes the last part of what Clint said. He lets his eyes flick around Clint's apartment, then raises his eyebrows questioningly.

"Yep," Clint says.

Phil nods. "I had wondered." 

"What was your main theory, if you don't mind me asking?"

"That the circus pays a hell of a lot better than anyone suspects."

Clint snorts. "Lame."

"Rogers thinks you got an inheritance from a long lost relative," Phil says. "Barnes has decided that you used your archery skills to knock over a couple of banks."

"That's badass," Clint says. "Let's go with the badass one."

Phil shakes his head in a disapproving manner, though he's pretty sure the smile he can't hold in ruins the effect. "I'd rather not perpetuate any rumors that the guy I'm dating is a criminal, all right?"

Clint's face goes serious again. "Dating? Are you sure?" He lifts one hand up to his ear. "Even with-"

Phil grabs the hand that's still on the table. He squeezes it. "Don't finish that sentence," he says softly. "Unless you want me to start gushing about all the things I find incredible about you."

Clint's eyes narrow. "Gushing?"

"Yes."

"I am going to go out on a very large and sturdy limb and say that you do not _gush_ , Phil Coulson."

"I could become a gusher. For you." Phil grimaces. "That doesn't sound right," he says, though most of his words are drowned out by Clint's laughter.

It takes a minute or so, but Clint eventually calms down to a chuckle every other breath. "Wow," he wheezes. "So, I guess we're dating then."

"Yeah," Phil says.

"Yeah."

"Good."

"Good."

Clint grins. "I know we didn't make those reservations, but this has been kind of nice, right?"

Phil glances around the little living space Clint has carved out for himself. He has a sudden flash of a future spent curled up on Clint's monstrosity of a couch - purple velvet, yikes - watching Dog Cops and running his fingers through Clint's hair. That thought warms him more than any chicken pot pie ever could.

"This is perfect," Phil says.

Clint does the adorableness trifecta thing again. "You're still not getting lucky." 

"Oh, I don't know," Phil says, "I think I already have."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five conversations with baked goods. A companion piece to Blue Plate Special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.

Phil doesn't know how long he's been awake or even what time it is. He could turn over and check the clock, or his watch, or his cell, but that would mean taking his eyes off of the man sleeping next to him, and Phil just isn't ready to do that yet.

If they were at Clint's place, the alarm would probably have gone off by now, rattling the bed frame and shaking the mattress. But, for the first time since they started dating, they had ended the previous evening at Phil's apartment. Phil can't help but be just a little overcome by the sight of Clint spread out in his sheets.

Phil lets his gaze drift over the nicest set of shoulders he's ever seen, on to a strongly muscled back, and down the curve of Clint's spine to where the top sheet just barely covers his ass.

Clint looks sexy, and amazing, and gorgeous, even with half his face smooshed into a pillow.

Phil stares a bit more until the screaming of his internal clock - set by the army and telling him he's _wasting daylight_ \- is too hard to ignore. Not wanting Clint to wake up alone and in a strange room, Phil gently brushes a hand over the ball of Clint's closest shoulder. Clint stirs, but doesn't wake, so Phil lets his next touch be a little firmer.

A soft, inarticulate noise comes from Clint's mouth as long lashes part and one blue eye peers blearily up at Phil.

"Good morning," Phil says as he touches the fingertips of his right hand to his mouth then moves that hand towards Clint. He puts his left forearm across his chest and moves his right hand up towards his shoulder. 

Clint grins and stretches lazily, putting on quite a nice display. When he finishes, he's on his back and both eyes are warmly focused on Phil. He mirrors the gesture Phil just made.

"Breakfast?" Phil asks. He knows that Clint's focus on his mouth is for practical reasons, but he still can't help but feel a little frisson of possessive pleasure at being the center of Clint's attention.

Clint nods and starts to extract himself from the sheets, but stills when Phil gently pushes against the center of his chest.

"Stay," Phil says as he curls the three middle fingers of his right hand towards his palm and stretches out his thumb and pinkie. 

Clint lifts one eyebrow and tilts his head to the side just a bit.

"I want to cook for you," Phil says.

Clint's look of confusion is replaced by a look of alarm that's then swiftly smoothed over into what Phil has come to recognize as Clint's come-hither face. Clint lowers his lashes to half mast, licks his lips, and palms his dick through the bedsheets.

Clint doesn't really do subtle.

Phil _almost_ falls for it.

"Stop that," Phil says. "I can cook."

Clint's face screws up like he just smelled something ghastly, and Phil wonders if he should start to feel offended. Instead, he takes Clint's hand - the one that isn't still positioned over his crotch - and kisses Clint's knuckles. 

"Trust me," Phil says.

Clint studies Phil's face for a moment, then snorts and rolls his eyes. He relaxes back against the pillows and imperiously waves Phil away from the bed.

Phil grins because a playful Clint is impossible to _not_ grin at. He leans in and plants a kiss on Clint's forehead, then climbs out of bed. He's half way across the room when a low wolf whistle causes him to almost trip over his own feet. He looks over his shoulder to find Clint's heavy gaze firmly planted on his bare backside. The come-hither look is back, and Phil can't help but let out a shaky laugh as he walks the few remaining feet to the bathroom.

It's not that Phil doesn't appreciate being leered at - Phil _really_ appreciates being leered at - it's just someone like Clint finding someone like Phil leer-worthy is still a new and novel concept.

Phil quickly washes up and brushes his teeth. By the time he's finished in the bathroom, Clint has gone back to sleep. Or he's faking it. Either way, Phil manages to put on a pair of boxers and a tee shirt without being accosted, which is good, since he's not sure his willpower could take it.

Morning sex is great - amazing, _incredible_ \- and everything, but Phil didn't spend almost three hours on the phone the other evening being grilled by his mom about his new 'fella' just so he and Clint could cram pieces of toast into their mouths as they both rushed out the door.

The first thing Phil does when he gets to his kitchen is set up the coffee maker. Knowing that Clint likes his coffee strong and thick enough to dissolve a spoon, Phil puts in twice the usual amount of grounds. Phil grimaces, but sacrificing his own taste buds is a small thing if it ensures Clint is awake and happily caffeinated.

As the sludge begins to brew, Phil takes a good, long look at a post-it on the side of his refrigerator. He makes mental notes of certain things, then he turns on his oven and begins to gather his supplies. 

Phil gets out his one, lone baking sheet, his one, lone mixing bowl, and the smallest of his two measuring cups. The new bags of flour and sugar go next to the bowl, followed by the new box of baking soda and the not so new salt canister. A carton of cream and a bag of the best chocolate chips he could find take up the rest of Phil's limited counter space.

Phil checks the post-it again, takes a deep breath, then starts to open bags. He measures, and pours, and mixes, and just before he adds the chocolate chips, he hears a faint shuffling sound coming from the direction of the bedroom.

"Hey," Clint says as he ambles into the kitchen. Phil's not sure how he's navigating since both of his hands are rubbing sleep out of his eyes. His hair looks like a bird's nest, and the only thing he's wearing is an old, worn pair of Phil's sweatpants, which, since Clint's waist is a little trimmer, hang low on his hips.

Phil's heart stutters in his chest, and he seriously rethinks the whole morning sex thing. "I thought I told you to stay in bed," he says, trying to sound mild and completely unaffected by the Adonis in his kitchen.

Clint shrugs and smirks. "Smelled coffee," he says roughly. "Gimme."

Phil - who's not charmed by the grabby hands Clint is doing, he's just not - nods towards a row of mugs on the wall. "Help yourself." He goes back to his mixing bowl and waits for the next inevitable question.

Clint makes an appreciative noise at the color and consistency of the coffee he gets out of the pot. He takes a few deep sniffs before downing about half the mug in one go. "Oh, yeah... That's good. So, what's cooking, good-looking?"

Phil snorts. "It's a family recipe." He feels Clint draw closer.

"I love family recipes. Does it have a story?"

"Not really," Phil says. "My mom calls them her lucky scones."

"Hmmm. Are they to bring luck or to celebrate when something lucky's already happened?"

Phil pauses as he's adding the cream and thinks for a moment. "I don't know. Both, maybe."

Clint hums again, then he just seems content to sip his coffee and watch Phil. "Do you mind?" he asks after a moment. "Me watching you bake?"

"Just as long as you're not silently judging me."

"I could vocally judge you," Clint says. "Your kneading technique could use some work."

Phil hip checks him. "Shut up. And if you won't go back to bed, you might as well make yourself useful; there's bacon and eggs in the fridge."

Phil's small but serviceable kitchen is not really meant for two grown men. They both get jostled, and Clint steps on Phil's foot, and at one point Phil has to put his hands on Clint's hips and physically move him out of his way - though, between Clint's smug grin and the way Phil's touch lingered, neither of them minded that very much.

Phil slides the scones into the oven and busies himself with making toast. In minutes, the bacon's cooked and ready, and Clint's plating four picture perfect sunny-side eggs.

"I knew I was keeping you around for a reason," Phil says as he and Clint settle themselves at Phil's table. He takes a bite of bacon then nearly chokes as Clint's foot runs up his calf and presses against his inner thigh.

"I'm sorry," Clint says, his polite smile a direct contrast to the rather obscene things his toes are doing, "what reason is that exactly?"

Phil has some willpower left after all, or his stomach is currently in more control of him than his dick. Either way, Phil gently but firmly takes a hold of Clint's bare ankle and pushes his foot away.

"Stop that," Phil says. "Breakfast."

"But after breakfast?" Clint asks. He bites his lower lip and bats his lashes. It should look ridiculous, but it really, really doesn't.

"We'll see." Phil winces.

Clint's cute look is swiftly replaced by something shrewd and his smirk is almost evil. "You totally just channeled one of your folks, didn't you?"

"You are too naked and hot for me to continue anywhere near that line of thinking," Phil mumbles as he shoves some egg into his mouth.

Clint chuckles and thankfully doesn't make any further observations. They eat in silence for a few minutes. Phil finds his eyes drifting to the timer on the microwave.

"When do you have to get back to the diner?" he asks.

"I'd usually like to be in before the lunch rush," Clint says, "but when Nat found out I was going to spend the night over here and that you had the day off, she told me that if I showed my face before closing something long and probably terrifying would happen to me."

"Long and probably terrifying?"

"I don't think all the words she used were English, but she was holding a paring knife in a very dangerous manner, and I decided to not ask her to repeat anything."

"Good call," Phil says. He knows how close Clint and Natasha are, so he keeps any other thoughts - like how Barnes must be crazy or a saint - to himself.

"Yeah," Clint says. "She's really happy for us. And, um, she wants me to ask you something."

The microwave beeps, and Phil holds up a hand towards Clint. "Hold that thought, okay?" Phil opens his oven and uses a folded over dish towel to remove the baking sheet. The scones look exactly like the ones his mom makes, and Phil feels both relieved and a little proud of himself.

Phil gingerly picks up two scones and puts them on a plate. He then practically shoves the plate towards Clint. "Here. Scones."

Clint huffs in amusement. "You're adorable. And these look great."

"Yeah?" Phil asks.

Clint looks at him fondly. "Yeah."

Phil fiddles with the dish towel he's still holding. "Do you want butter, or-"

"Nope, I want to try them like this first." Clint picks up one of the scones, and Phil watches nervously as he brings it to his mouth. Clint takes a bite, chews, and his eyes widen. "Oh. Oh, wow."

"It's good?" Phil asks.

"It's awesome," Clint says before he takes another bite. He makes a few soft, happy noises, and Phil suddenly gets what's so great about feeding someone you lo... care for. Feeding someone you care for.

Phil takes his seat again and reaches for the other scone only to have his fingers slapped.

"Get your own, buddy," Clint says, drawing the plate closer to himself and hunching over it protectively.

Phil laughs. "I'm glad you like them."

"I'm glad you made them for me." Clint polishes off the first scone and almost immediately reaches for the second. "Man, next time you talk to your mom, tell her that I think she's amazing, okay?"

"Yeah," Phil says. He steels himself. "Or you could tell her yourself."

Clint pauses mid-chew. "You want me to call your mom?"

"No," Phil says. "I, uh... I know it's kind of soon, but when mom found out I was seeing someone she kind of... _hinted_ rather strongly that she and dad wanted to meet you." Phil grimaces. "And by hinted, I mean she demanded. And by rather strongly, I mean she threatened to get both Nick and Maria involved."

Clint puts down the remnants of his second scone and leans back from the table a bit. Phil's stomach does an unpleasant little churn. Normally, Phil would never dream of springing his family on someone so soon. But when his mom had learned that Phil was dating someone and that person was serious enough to warrant her lucky scone recipe, she pounced. It's not that Phil can't say no to his mother, it's that he can't say no to his mother, his boss, and his partner all at the same time. He's tried. It wasn't pretty.

"It doesn't have to be a big thing," Phil says. "They're in Boston, and I though maybe we could make it a day trip. We could take the train, have lunch, then be back here for dinner. I'm sure you wouldn't want to be away from the diner for more than a day, so that's the perfect excuse - I mean reason - the perfect _reason_ for such a short trip."

"Short trip. Yeah." Clint scratches at the back of his neck. "Uh, see, the thing is... I'm not exactly the meeting the parents type, Phil," Clint says slowly.

"You're worried. I'm probably implying that they're really bad, aren't I?" Phil says. "They're not. Mostly. I mean, they're parents, you know?"

"No," Clint says, "not really. I'm just... What I'm trying to say is I'm not really that great... as a prospective... .whatever." He flaps one of his hands around.

"What are..." Phil frowns softly. "Are you talking about your hearing?"

"No," Clint says, "I'm talking about the rest of me. I'm, you know, _me_."

"Uh huh."

"Phil..." Clint leans forward. "I'm not the kind of guy people want to introduce to the folks back home."

Phil knows what Clint's trying to say, but he's just not getting it. "I don't understand. You're a successful businessman who's smart, and funny, and sweet, not to mention incredibly attractive. And you own your own building, for Christ's sake. You're kind of a dream guy, Clint."

"I'm... Wait. What?" Clint sits up straight and blinks a few times. "Huh. What do you know? I'm all respectable and everything, aren't I?" He grins. "Well, damn."

"Were you, uh, not respectable before?" Phil asks.

"I was a vagabond and a rogue," Clint says with a seriousness that has Phil wondering what would show up on a background check. Not that he would ever...

"But the vagabond and rogue days are behind you. Right?" 

Clint smirks. "I'm a successful businessman and property owner now, Phil." 

"Uh huh."

"Plus, I'm kind of dating this really hot detective, so I guess I'd better stay good, right?"

Phil feels Clint's foot start up his calf again. "Good being a relative term, of course."

"Oh, of course."

Phil again takes a hold of Clint's ankle, but this time he keeps the foot in his lap and starts to rub at the insole. "Not to pressure you or anything, but-"

"Are you trying to soften me up with a foot rub?" Clint asks, eyes narrowing.

"And the scones," Phil says. "Don't forget the scones."

Clint sighs then lets out a little grunt as Phil's thumb digs into a tender spot. "What if they don't like me?"

"Impossible," Phil says. 

Clint rolls his eyes.

"Look," Phil says, " _I_ like you. And mom will probably be so thrilled at the possibility of me not dying alone and unloved that she won't want to do or say anything to spook you too badly." The heavy grilling would probably wait until Thanksgiving when Phil's extended family could get involved too.

Clint chews on his bottom lip for a moment. He looks pensive and adorable.

"Okay," he says finally. "I guess lunch sometime in the future wouldn't be that bad. Hopefully."

"That's the spirit," Phil says, patting Clint's shin.

"And now that I've agreed to that, I don't fee so bad about telling you the two of us are going on a double date with Nat and Bucky."

"Uh..." Phil very carefully replays Clint's last few words in his mind. "I don't recall you asking-"

"You're making me meet your parents," Clint says. "Nat's the only in-law you're going to have to deal with. Well, the only one I claim, at any rate. So, suck it up."

Phil adds one more piece to the puzzle that is Clint's history. "All right," he says. "Fair enough."

Clint claps his hands together. "Now that that's all out of the way, is it time for morning sex yet?"

"Yeah," Phil says, "it's definitely time for morning sex."

Clint crams the last bit of scone into his mouth. "Awesome."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five conversations with baked goods + a bonus chapter featuring a certain pivotal piece of chocolate chess pie. A companion piece to Blue Plate Special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.
> 
> I had originally planned on putting Phil's POV of the chocolate chess scene in this fic, but decided against it for various reasons that seemed good at the time. Then a couple people asked about it, and I realized that - barring any prequel snippets - this would be the last time I could writing pining!Phil in this 'verse. And pining!Phil is just so cute...
> 
> Chronologically, this fits in between chapters 3 & 4.

"Good job, Detective," Fury says as Phil's shrugging on his coat. 

It's late. Phil's been going almost non-stop since he got the lead on a string of deadly home invasions the previous morning. He's tired, down to his core, but he still manages to rustle up a hint of a smile for his captain and old friend.

"Thanks, sir," Phil says. "But I certainly didn't do it alone." He's the last to leave though, wanting to stay until the suspect they had in custody had been processed.

"I'm aware of how much everyone pitched in on this one," Fury says. He lets his right hip rest on the edge of Phil's desk. There's a disconcerting twinkle in Fury's eye and Phil forces himself to pay attention. "I'm also aware of where everyone else is. Hill told me she got a text from Barnes about our favorite eatery. You are going, right?"

Phil doesn't bother to hide his sigh. He sinks back down into his chair. "Not you too."

"Not me too what?"

"Maria's been talking to you, hasn't she?" Phil asks.

"Detective Hill talks to me on a daily basis, Coulson."

"Nick..."

Fury's face cracks into a grin. "Maria didn't tell me anything I didn't already know, Phil."

Phil closes his eyes and briefly shakes his head. 

"Don't get upset just because the trained detectives you work with day in and day out have picked up that you're head over heels for a certain cook," Fury says with a chuckle. 

"Wait," Phil says. "Detectives? Plural? Who else knows?"

Fury gives him a pitying look. Phil closes his eyes and shakes his head again.

"Can I give you a piece of advice?" Fury says.

"Will you not if I say no?"

Fury snorts.

"Yeah," Phil says, "I didn't think so."

"Phil, if we've managed to figure out that you're smitten, could you at least entertain the possibility that we've also managed to figure out that Barton's smitten back?"

"Hearing you use the word smitten is very odd to me," Phil says.

"Hmmm." Nick strokes his goatee thoughtfully. "How about enamored?"

"Nick."

"Infatuated?"

"Please stop."

"Besotted?"

"Did you swallow a thesaurus?"

"Amorous?"

"For the love of God," Phil says, "if I agree to go to Hawkeye's will you quit it?"

"For now," Nick says. He crosses his arms over his chest and gives Phil a look that's disturbingly parental. "I think he could be good for you."

Phil hauls himself out of his chair, claps a hand on Fury's shoulder, and tries to ignore how red his ears probably are.

___________

 

Phil does go to Hawkeye's, and he ends up getting some leftover tuna casserole. It wouldn't normally be his first choice, but it's not like he tastes it anyway, not with Clint holding court in his sleepwear. However good Clint's ass looks in jeans, it's nothing compared to how his ass looks in the thin, form-hugging, cotton pants he has on now.

Jesus.

As Phil feasts on both casserole and eye candy, he absorbs the atmosphere and comradery around him. He can feel the muscles in his shoulders relaxing and the horrors of the past two days melting away. He's still tired, but the bone deep weariness he felt earlier is gone. 

And then Bucky has to start digging.

"Where the hell did you learn to cook like this, man?"

Sure, the question seems innocuous, but Phil can hear the intent behind it, and he can see the shrewdness hiding in his fellow detectives' faces. It's the same look that gets trotted out anytime one of them starts dating someone new.

Except Natasha. No one, not even Fury, tried to interrogate Natasha.

Phil guesses that he should be glad everyone's weapons are still holstered and no one's shining a light into Clint's eyes, but he doesn't appreciate this, especially since he's still not convinced Clint's interested in him.

Then Clint answers Bucky's question, and Phil stops being pissed and starts paying attention. Clint used to be in the _circus_. That's so cool. Guesses for Clint's former occupation are bandied about, and Phil can't help but try and confirm a suspicion he's had.

"He was a marksman," Phil says. 

Clint looks surprised. "How did you-"

"Hawkeye's," Phil says with a shrug. "I always wondered where that name came from. I figured it had something to do with your past. That maybe you were in the service. A sniper or-"

"Archer," Clint says. "I was an archer."

"Huh. I could see that." Phil gets a mental image of what those amazing arms must look like in action. "Do you still have your bow?" 

"Yeah. I haven't done anything with it for a while, though," Clint says, ducking his head a bit, though his eyes stay focused on Phil. "I keep meaning to find somewhere to practice, but something here's always clamoring for my attention, you know?"

"I can imagine," Phil says. He thinks about his own life and how hard it can be to push his job back and carve out a bit of space for himself. "But if you love something you should make time for it."

"You're right," Clint says with a firm nod. "I should. I will."

"So, what happened?" Maria asks, her no nonsense voice startling Phil and harshly reminding him of the others' presence. "How did you wind up here?"

Phil scowls at Maria's bluntness. Clint looks a bit unsure at the questioning, and instead of answering he starts to clear away some of their empty dishes. Phil can't tell if it's stalling or a diversionary tactic, and he knows he's not alone in smelling blood in the water. Whatever happened with the circus is obviously a touchy subject, but this isn't an investigation and Clint is certainly not a suspect. Phil's about to speak up, to say that they've imposed on Clint's generosity and hospitality enough for one night, when Clint begins to talk.

"There was an... an accident," Clint says as his expression becomes horribly vulnerable and young. "I was in the hospital for a while, and the show waits for no man." He shrugs, and it looks so forced that Phil's heart aches a bit.

"Do you ever think about going back?" Maria asks, and Phil can hear the underlying question - are you planning on sticking around - loud and clear.

"No," Clint says with almost no hesitation. "I mean, I loved it, but that part of my life's over."

More and more of Phil's annoyance fades away as his colleagues and friends express how glad they are that Clint's going to be staying. Clint blushes and says something cute, and Phil can't help but be charmed all over again.

"You know, guys, I'm beat," Steve announces suddenly.

Barnes sounds his agreement, and Phil winces as he checks his watch. While he's sure Fury would show his detectives leeway if he and the others come in late tomorrow, Clint has no such luxury.

"Yes," Phil says, "I suppose we should be going."

"No," Maria and Bruce say in unison. Phil narrows his eyes. 

"You should stay," Maria says firmly, "and... have some pie. Don't you want some pie? You always want Clint's pie." 

Phil frowns and absently pats at his stomach. He knows what Maria's trying to orchestrate, and he should cut her off at the knees before she can get more blatant and embarrassing about getting Phil alone with Clint. But... _Pie_.

"You do have pie, don't you, Clint?" Thor asks, looking far too innocent for a man with biceps the size of Phil's head.

"There's a slice of chocolate chess left," Clint says. He quickly strides down to the standing fridge, grabs a container, walks back, and drops it on the counter in front of Phil. He looks... hopeful, actually, and Phil starts to wonder if maybe Maria and the others were right.

Still... "It's late," Phil says, "and-"

"We could split it," Clint says, shocking the hell out of Phil and, from the look on his face, himself as well. Clint's eyes momentarily flick to the others, then he seems to steel himself. "You'd be doing me a favor, if you keep me from eating the whole piece."

Phil should say no. He should go home, get some sleep, and come back here tomorrow so he can keep feeling out the situation. Just because it _seems_ like Clint's interested, doesn't necessarily mean... But Clint looks so eager... But Phil could just be projecting... But there's _pie_...

"Okay," Phil says.

A dopey smile forms on Clint's face. "Okay."

"All right."

"Yeah. All right."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Oh, for the love of God!" Maria throws her hands in the air. "That's it. I'm done. You two sad sacks are on your own." She herds the others out into the night. Just before she shuts the door behind her, Phil catches a wink aimed his way, then she's gone, leaving Phil and Clint alone.

Phil's going to have to buy her flowers.

"Sorry about Maria," Phil says. He takes a deep breath and goes for broke. "She's been trying to convince me to ask you out for weeks."

"Really?" The word ends in this adorable squeak, and Clint clears his throat. "I would say yes, if you were, you know, to do that. Ask me out, I mean. I would say yes. If you wanted." Clint shoves a forkful of pie into his mouth.

Phil has an overwhelming urge to do something uncharacteristically awful like pumping his fist or finding someone to high five. "So, would you like to-"

"Yes!"

"Are you sure you want to answer right away?" Phil asks, his voice oddly light and teasing. He's pretty sure that odd, effervescent feeling bubbling in his chest is happiness. "I could be inviting you to go to a French film festival or a comic book convention."

Clint ducks his head and looks up through his lashes. Phil nearly bites his tongue. "I'd be okay with anything," Clint says, "as long as it's with you."

"Oh." Phil's brain begs off trying to come up with anything more.

"Yeah," Clint says.

"So, you're interested in-"

"You. Yeah."

"Are you sure?" Phil has to ask. "I mean-"

Clint laughs. "I don't change my dessert menu for just anybody, Phil Coulson."

"All those different desserts you've been making, they were all for me?" Phil asks, needing to make sure that's what he's hearing.

Clint nods. Then shrugs. Then nods again.

He changed his dessert menu. For Phil. "Oh," Phil says. He thinks of all those months they spent unknowingly dancing around each other. Jesus, they could have been having _so_ much sex already. Maria was definitely getting flowers. And a new ankle holster. And maybe some chocolate.

"It would have been nice to know your intentions earlier," Phil says, teasing again. They banter back and forth, and it's so easy to just sit and let this new thing unfurl between them, until Clint has to pause mid-sentence for a jaw-cracking yawn.

"I should go," Phil says, thinking of how late is is and trying to stifle his own yawn. 

Clint smiles ruefully. "Sorry."

"It's okay. You're exhausted," Phil says. "I am too, actually."

A line forms between Clint's eyebrows as he frowns a bit. "You had a rough day," he says.

"Yeah. But I can't complain about the way it ended."

"Today's ending pretty good for both of us, I think."

"It could get better," Phil says.

Clint smirks. "I thought you just said you were exhausted."

Phil shakes his head. Clint is a flirt, and he loves it. "Tell me when I can take you out to dinner."

Clint thinks for a moment. "Wednesday. Barring any scheduling emergencies, Wednesday."

"Okay," Phil says. "Wednesday. I'm taking you out on a date on Wednesday."

"Yeah, you are."

They both stare goofily at each other for a minute or two until Clint sets off another yawning chain reaction. Phil offers to help Clint with the dishes they dirtied, but Clint waves them off, then walks Phil to the door.

Before Phil steps outside, Clint puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. Phil turns and Clint's other hand comes up and cups the side of Phil's face.

"Is this okay?" Clint asks, his eyes wide and dark.

Phil, afraid of babbling like an idiot, simply nods.

The kiss is chaste and sweet, but the fire it starts in Phil's belly is anything but. When he feels Clint start to pull away, Phil rests one of his hands on the back of Clint's neck and holds him in place for just a little while longer.

Clint breaks the kiss, but keeps his face close to Phil's. He presses his forehead against Phil's temple. "Neither one of us is in the shape to start something tonight."

"Hmmm." Phil runs his nose along the side of Clint's cheek. "Wednesday, then?"

Clint laughs and gives Phil a little shove. "Do I look like the type of boy who puts out on the first date?"

"God, I hope so."

Clint laughs harder. His entire face kind of scrunches, and Phil is just... Phil is just _gone_ for him.

"Good night, Detective," Clint says, the firmness of his voice belied by the amused hitch in his breath and the glint in his eyes.

"Good night, Clint." Phil steps outside and waits while Clint locks up. When Hawkeye's is secure, he gives Clint a little wave and starts his journey home. After just a few steps, he stops, takes his phone out, and sends a quick text to Maria.

_You were right._

Phil takes a few more steps, and his phone vibrates with an incoming message.

_I will lord this over you until the end of time._

Phil chuckles and shakes his head. He has no doubt that she means it. He's also pretty sure that Clint's worth it.


End file.
